Free The Truth About Verity Sparks by Susan Green Page B

and tablets of paint and dried plants and shells and tangles of snakeskins and bones and birds’ nests and catkins and goodness knows what else. I bet the housemaids cursed when it came to dusting. The portfolio – which was a big cardboard folder – was where she said, on the desk.
    “Open it, my dear,” she said as I came back out into the conservatory. “You’ll like that lot. They’re all flowers.”
    “Mrs Morcom, they’re beautiful.”
    “Of course,” she said.
    “What’s that one, ma’am?” I asked, pointing.
    “A waterlily.”
    “And that one?”
    “A magnolia.
Magnolia campbellii
. I painted that in the foothill of the Himalayas, in India. And the waterlily was done in India too.”
    India! I wondered for a second if Mrs Morcom was a missionary, but somehow she didn’t seem the type.
    “Aunt is a botanical illustrator,” explained Judith. “That was why she was in India. She has travelled all over the world drawing and painting plants.”
    “She has had several books published,” said SP. “And there is a gallery dedicated to her works in Kew Gardens.”
    That meant nothing much to me until SP explained that all the most famous plant scientists in the world came to study at the Royal Botanical Gardens in Kew.
    “Aunt Almeria is a very famous lady,” added SP.
    “Piffle,” she said. “I’d rather be rich than famous, but I haven’t done so badly. After all, it is unusual for a woman to earn her own living as I do.”
    “Is it?” I said, surprised. “I know lots. Why, there’s Madame and Miss Musquash and …” I trailed off. They were all looking at me. Had I said something wrong?
    Mrs Morcom was nodding her head. “It is unusual for
ladies
, Verity dear. It seems that the more wealth and respectability a woman has, the less independence she is allowed. I count myself very lucky. Ah, Etty. What is it?”
    Etty had a message for SP. “Mr Opie is waiting for you, sir.”
    “Opie? Capital.” SP jumped up. “Thank you, Etty. You’ll excuse me, Aunt?”
    “Why don’t you bring him in here? I like the boy. I’d like to see him again.”
    Judith made a funny noise in her throat, halfway between a cough and a sob.
    “Now, Judith,” Mrs Morcom said in a very gentle voice. “Steady, my dear.”
    “I’ll go and see him in the study, Aunt.” SP got up to go, but Judith rushed out of the room in front of him. That was the second time she’d left the room rather than meet Mr Opie. Why didn’t she like him?
    “Oh, dear.” Mrs Morcom chewed the end of her paintbrush, turning her lips bright green. “Oh, dear. That was stupid of me.” She looked at me and sighed. “I suppose she has gone to her room and is crying her eyes out.”
    “Why, ma’am?”
    “Why? Because Judith is breaking her heart over Mr Opie, that’s why.”
    “I see.” I said. A broken heart. Now Judith’s behaviour to Mr Opie made sense.
    “Daniel Opie is not only extremely handsome,” she said. “He’s also extremely nice.” She sighed again. “He and Judith are made for each other, but he’s got an over-developed sense of honour, the silly boy, and says it can never be. Never is a long, long time, don’t you think?”
    I couldn’t disagree with that.
    “Daniel’s father was an attorney in some mill town up in the North. He was a bright boy, but there wasn’t the money to put him through university. Still, he got a position as an articled clerk with a firm of lawyers in Frogmouth Court. Rumbelow and Budd, they were called. One day young Mr Budd asked Daniel to get a letter from a file. Which he did. Well, it turned out that Mr Budd lost it, there was no copy made, it resulted in the loss of a case, and Mr Budd put the blame on Daniel. He was disgraced, dismissed and, without any money, was soon out on the streets without food or shelter. When SP found him, over a year ago, he was about to jump into the river and end it all.”
    “SP saved him?”
    “Grabbed him by the arm, wrestled him to